


Bright Lights, Big City

by creepy_shetan



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, Coming Out, Community: comment_fic, Established Relationship, Gen, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_shetan/pseuds/creepy_shetan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Specter and Ross are at the top of the men's game in pro tennis. Little does the public know that the "rivals" are in fact dating... let alone that either man is gay. At least, not until unsettling news about an out junior player opens Harvey's and Mike's eyes.</p><p>(Originally posted 2013/4/15 as a fill for a prompt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Lights, Big City

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SamuelJames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamuelJames/gifts).



_**“Game, set, match: USA. Three sets to one: 3-6, 6-4, 7-6, 7-5.”** _

_“Outstanding effort by the Czechs, but it’s the unlikely combination of Specter and Ross who came through in the end to give the home team the decisive 3-0 lead! Team USA is in the Davis Cup semifinals! Listen to that crowd, Ben. They can hardly believe it either.”_

_“We were all skeptical of this doubles team when it was announced Thursday, weren’t we, Chris? It turns out that two powerhouse stars in singles can form an even greater force together in doubles.”_

_“Yes, and to think, this is Ross and Specter’s first doubles match, and they beat the Czechs as if they weren’t a top-ten-ranked, Grand-Slam-winning veteran team. Although we did see some fireworks between the two in Miami last week, it seems that Harvey and Mike have put it behind them.”_

_“Haha, I’d say so! After that heated exchange, I never would have thought that they would, not only win this Third Rubber, but also do a victory dance bit with the rest of Team USA.”_

_“Only at Davis Cup will the American team and its fans celebrate like it’s the World Cup final. Oh, and now for the Super Bowl tradition: a Gatorade bath for team coach Robert Zane. I’m sure they will pay for that later.”_

_“Odd not seeing Robert’s daughter Rachel Zane here for the tie. She of course opted instead to play in Charleston this week. A smart decision, since she’ll crack the top twenty for the first time on Monday’s new rankings. Another reason for Coach Zane to cut loose tonight, right Chris?”_

_“Haha, well, it’s not over yet. He’s still got to lead the team through tomorrow’s dead rubbers. Knowing him, he’ll want a complete 5-0 sweep. Let’s hope that tonight’s good cheer continues on through next week’s Masters 1000 in Monte Carlo. Both Specter and Ross have ranking points to defend, but neither has won the tournament before.”_

_“Yes, it’s one of the last goals left for the great Harvey Specter. We’ll take it back to the studio now, where Mary has breaking news.”_

_“Thank you, Chris and Ben. After such joyous scenes of celebration in Boise, it is with a heavy heart that I bring you news from St. Louis, where junior player Matthew McLemore was hospitalized earlier today. Minutes ago, it was confirmed that the 16-year-old has self-inflicted wounds as well as recent signs of a struggle with one or more assailants. Details are still coming in, but we know that he was discovered at home and rushed to the ER just in time. He is now in stable condition, but will be under observation for a few days. McLemore, who was a finalist in last December’s Orange Bowl in Florida, has been known in recent months for not only his talent but also for announcing on his birthday during a tournament press conference last year that he is gay. His family and coach have released a brief statement to the press...”_

~*~*~*~

“You just had to throw in those stats, didn’t you? You do realize you’ve effectively ruined every person in that press room’s bracket, right?”

Mike waved it off, dropping his clothing bag onto the nearest chair. “That’s what they get for asking tennis players about March Madness. They should have known better. Besides, I could sense a Michael Jordan quote falling out of your mouth at any second, so I had to, y’know, shot-block it.”

Harvey rolled his eyes, at the words and at the messy heap of fabric that was once a perfectly ironed suit. To think, all Mike did was carry it by the hanger from his own damn room across the hall. “You’re insufferable, y’know that? And I was _not_ about to quote Jordan.”

“ _Yes_ , you were,” Mike emphasized as he plopped down onto Harvey’s perfectly made bed and ruined even more (but not as finely woven) fabric in his wake; this earned Mike what he had come to define as a low-grade Harvey glare -- more of a warning shot than an unstable explosive. “You had _that look_. That dreamy, adoring smile and twinkling eye thing you do when you even think about him or some other idol of yours.”

Harvey scoffed at the choice of words as he unzipped his racquet bag on the other chair in the room and rummaged blindly for his cell phone. “Aww, are you jealous, Mike? Win a few more titles, maybe break a few records, and then we can talk.” Harvey began to frown to himself as he spoke, until his hand brushed the screen. He’d kept the device off most of the day and had the sudden dread that he’d left it back in the locker room on site or worse: in his dirty kit bag.

“So does that mean you’re going to withdraw from the next few events, let me win a Slam or two?” Mike asked with a laugh. “Oh, Harvey, that’s so generous of you.”

Harvey shrugged, pushing the power button and placing his phone on the bedside table for a moment while he got all his stuff to fit back into his bag. Part of him idly wondered how some of Mike’s gear always managed to get mixed in with his. 

“Hey, I _did_ let you win a Slam. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Not my fault you keep giving me stuff I don’t want, like this.”

Mike easily caught the pack of wristbands that was tossed to him, and without missing a beat he looked toward the ceiling, mimicking thoughtfulness, complete with a finger tapping his chin. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “and I remember catching a virus -- remarkably like the one _you_ had in the quarters and semis -- _right after the final_ ,” Mike finished in a deadpan, plastic crinkling as he clutched the pack in one fist for effect. 

Harvey didn’t give him a glance, not even when Mike fell backward (more like threw himself down) on the sheets with a sharp exhale.

“See? That’s two gifts. It could’ve hit you _during_ the final, but it didn’t.”

The racquet bag landed on the floor with a dull thud, and one side of the bed sank as Harvey sat down. Mike, lying across the bottom half of the bed, tilted his head back a little to gaze up at the older man.

“I’d prefer you buying me things instead of making me literally sick to my stomach, thank you.”

“You make almost as much as I do,” Harvey teased dryly, one eyebrow raised. 

His smirk turned fond as he ran a hand through Mike’s hair, causing the blue eyes to slowly close. He watched Mike’s tongue dart out to wet his lips and the subsequent movement of his exposed throat as he swallowed. Mike leaned into the touch as he blindly raised an arm over his head to rest his hand on Harvey’s nearer knee.

“Fine. How about you spoil me and I spoil you... But I spend _almost_ as much, Harvey,” he suggested with an innocent smile.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you, you ass,” came a low reply, the words inching closer to Mike’s ear as Harvey leaned on an elbow to curve around the other man. “What makes you think I care about you buying me anything?” 

Harvey rested his head upside-down on Mike’s left shoulder, nose nestling into his neck. “I’ve got enough stuff. You can have it if you want.” He started trailing kisses along Mike’s hairline behind his ear. “But you have to make up the difference to me... with your time... and your energy...”

Mike’s breath hitched, his left hand reflexively flying up to grasp a handful of Harvey’s hair. The older man pulled back merely enough for Mike to turn his head. He offered a quick peck to Harvey’s nose.

“You started this, so now you have to move. I get that your spider sense is tingling, but don’t make me kiss you upside-down.”

Harvey chuckled, sliding over to a more comfortable and natural position. “Thank you for admitting that you’re Mary Jane,” he whispered into Mike’s mouth before attacking.

“Easy there, Tiger. I’d rather be James Franco,” came the eventual ragged reply from reddened lips.

“Not surprised.”

A loud rattling noise from the table broke the relative quiet that had descended upon the hotel room.

“Ignore it. “

“You’re not going to see why your phone is having a seizure over there?”

“Just the usual post-match congrats messages. It can wait.”

They continued, not as quietly as before. After a minute they heard more rattling.

“Mmmm, Mister Popul--ah,” a gasp cut Mike off.

Finally, the phone rings. Harvey sighs, recognizing the personalized ringtone. He curses, sits up, and answers. Mike turns his face into the sheets to stifle any noise.

“Hello? ...Yes, he was here. ...Yes. ...Of course not. ...Okay. ...I’ll make sure he’s ready by seven-fifteen. See you then.”

Harvey ended the call while pointedly staring at Mike straight into his one visible eye. He shifted to lean on an arm, breathing more evenly now.

“Cock-blocked by Zane yet again, I’m guessing.” 

“Why does he keep calling me instead of you?”

“Because you’re his favorite... and my phone’s dead,” Mike replied with hesitation.

Harvey looked down at him with a steadily burning medium-grade glare. Mike braced himself for impact.

“Mike, you need to just keep it charging while you roam around Twitter and Instagram and Flickr and Pinterest and _goddamn Tumblr_. The fact that I know what all those are is entirely your fault. I don’t understand why you don’t have _just one_ time-consuming way for fans and douchebags to stalk you.”

It was Harvey’s turn to flop down on the mattress, hands covering his eyes and massaging his brow.

“Just so you know,” he started as he sat up and scooted closer, “Every picture I post of you or is you-adjacent gets a thousand favorites and retweets. I have more than enough supply to meet the demand. You should be happy that I only use my powers sparingly.”

The hands dragged down over his face so that he could give Mike a look.

“You should be happy I don’t hack your wireless account and cancel your data plan.”

“You’re bullshitting me.”

Harvey crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. The intensity of his expression wasn’t marred by the lower angle in the slightest.

“Try me, Michael James Ross. I keep telling you to change your passwords.”

“Uhhh, what if I change the subject instead?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

“To what?”

Mike slid a hand over Harvey’s arms where they still rested over his chest.

“No,” he said flatly. “You are going to get your damn phone and charge it where I can see it. I’m going to get dressed.”

As Mike sulked his way to his room and exchanged the wristbands for his charger, he mentally reorganized his gathered data on the scale of Harvey glares. He might need to create a medium-high category.

~*~*~*~

Later, when both were more or less ready to go but still had some time left before dinner, they sat side-by-side against Harvey’s headboard and stared down at their respective handheld screens to pass the remaining minutes. 

Every now and then, one would chuckle and show or read the other something. Mostly, however, they were responding to personal messages from friends and family. Many had (jokingly) expected to see a fight on court and were all (honestly) shocked that they had won against such strong opponents. Harvey grumbled at that: he and Mike had practiced together enough to know each other’s style of play, and they knew what would and wouldn’t work in a doubles match. 

“They’re starting to believe the media’s story of our ‘rivalry’ instead of listening to us. It’s ridiculous.”

“Not everyone, haha. Grams and her friends tried to turn it into a drinking game, but they all, in her words, pussied out halfway through. She says the TV commentators talk about our relationship so much that she would’ve needed a new liver.”

“Bless that woman. I’d gladly donate an organ to her.”

“I’ll tell her you said that. She may ask for it in writing.”

Mike refrained from bringing up that one time at the US Open when they had played against each other in doubles. It was only an early round and they lost to the top-seeded team in the next match, but Mike and Trevor Evans, his best friend from juniors, had won. Comfortably, he dared to think. Harvey always said he didn’t let losing bother him much, since he didn’t enter doubles events often; sometimes he simply did it for the match practice and a change of pace. Mike didn’t buy it, however. He knew how competitive the great Harvey Specter (he should tell Grammy to use that epithet in a drinking game as well) really was and that he would never do anything half-assed in any tournament. Hell, out of hundreds of matches, the man had retired and forfeited to his opponent less than ten times.

He also knew how much Harvey hated it when Mike even mentioned Trevor. It didn’t matter that they hardly saw each other anymore and had grown apart as friends and as tennis players. Mike definitely didn’t want to do anything else that night that could cause the time-bomb Harvey glares to start ticking again.

He wouldn’t say it, but Harvey was also irritated that their own peers thought they were the sort of people who would let a trivial rivalry (the term bothered Mike, too, but he could understand the need to hype up matches to fans) in singles affect the way they play in doubles, on a team, for their country. 

Mike loved playing in Davis Cup -- and watching the Fed Cup -- as much as Harvey and every other player who were lucky enough to get the chance. Admittedly, his reasons had expanded over the past couple of years, directly corresponding to new and growing dimensions of his and Harvey’s private relationship. Davis Cup and Fed Cup weekends were the only times in the year that the press didn’t give much notice to a group of men or women laughing and touching and acting silly together. In fact, they ate up photos of “team camaraderie” and sold it as “patriotic sportsmanship.” Displays of emotion, whether joyful or mournful, were media gold. 

To Mike, and he suspected Harvey as well, it meant that he could be a little tiny bit freer with his boyfriend in public, and that extra breathing room made all the difference in the world. When Mike’s doubles partner Harold had to withdraw due to an injury at the last minute, well, they jumped at the opportunity. Mike approached Coach Zane with the idea, and Harvey finally convinced him an hour before the draw ceremony to sign them up as a team. Harvey had promised Zane he wouldn’t regret it, and Harvey never made a move if he wasn’t confident in the results.

Mike was roused from his meandering background thoughts and foreground text conversations by the abrupt shift in Harvey’s leisurely posture to a straight tense line.

“Hey Mike,” Harvey’s eyes didn’t leave his phone, but his tone made Mike look up from his. “Do you remember that McLemore kid?”

“Yeah, one of the USTA’s bright young hopefuls for the pro tour, but he wants to try college tennis first. I practiced with him in New York last year, and he’s got a sick kick serve when he can get it to work -- kind of like you.” Mike tried to keep his voice light, but he was rambling and couldn’t hide the worry on his face. “Why?”

Harvey silently passed him his phone, eyes watching him carefully as Mike read then scrolled then read some more. 

When the younger man finally looked up, he was immediately pulled into Harvey’s arms. There was no noise other than Mike’s muffled half-coherent stream of murmuring and Harvey’s steady mantra of quiet reassurances. 

Soon, both voices faded into silence. Harvey loosened his hold a fraction when he felt the fist against his back smooth out to an open palm. He continued rubbing Mike’s back in small circles until Mike moved away, just enough to focus on the older man’s face. Harvey felt a small wetness cooling on his dress shirt, but Mike’s eyes were dry and determined.

“We have to do something, Harvey.”

Nodding, Harvey answered Mike’s firmness with his own resolve, “It’s time.”

They leaned comfortably against one another for another few minutes, arms and hands and fingers entwined, until it was time to leave for dinner with their teammates and coaching staff and the rest of the entourage. To Harvey’s credit, he didn’t say a word about the wrinkles in their suits. (Mike didn’t notice it until the next day; he suspected that Harvey had found his own Mike grenades that he’d rather avoid detonating.) Harvey simply straightened their neckties in turn and caught the younger man’s gaze in the mirror before pressing a kiss to Mike’s temple. A swig of Harvey’s small stash of scotch and a deep breath later, they were walking together down the hall toward the hotel elevators, keeping a well-practiced impersonal space between them.

At the restaurant, they somehow managed to fit the entire group into a private room. Without planning it, Harvey and Mike ended up sitting directly across from one another. Despite celebrating with them all mere hours ago, being surrounded by such a large support group again affected the two men in a strangely different and yet equally heartfelt way. At some point in the evening, they reached the same conclusion individually, and yet, expressed it to themselves with the same exact thought: “We are so goddamn lucky.”

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: Whitechapel or Suits, Chandler/Kent or Harvey/Mike, tennis rpf au in which they are in the top five of the ATP tour and secretly in a relationship. When a kid on the junior tour tries to kill himself after being bullied they decide to come out and suddenly become gay role models. There is a lot of press reaction but it's more the reactions of fellow players/competitors and their friends that they're nervous about. (Optional extra, they visit the teen in hospital and he's thrilled to meet one of his heroes and one of his heroes main rivals.)  
> The theme: Free for all (none/any)  
> Originally posted [here](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/420000.html?thread=67863712#t67991968).  
> I only own the writing.
> 
> For the curious...  
> \+ The title is from Gary Clark, Jr.'s song "Bright Lights." It was featured in both ESPN's promos for the 2012 US Open and in s2ep10 of Suits ("High Noon"); therefore, I was already mentally associating them together months before Scripps -- who freely admitted to doing this -- sniped at me with this prompt. (Well, I've linked Suits to tennis since the show started, but that's a _whole 'nother story_ , ahaha... 6^.^;;)  
> \+ The Davis Cup quarterfinal tie in April 2013 really was in Boise, Idaho, but USA played Serbia and lost. Czech Rep is a tough team to face: they have a good chance of being Davis Cup champions for three years in a row (2012-2014).  
> \+ The Orange Bowl International Tennis Championship is a Grade A ITF event for teenage juniors (one level below the junior Grand Slams) held annually in Florida. Many of its past champions and finalists have gone on to have successful careers in professional tennis.  
> \+ I'm kinda amazed that I referenced soccer, football, and basketball in this as well. XD;;  
> And finally...  
> Yes, I know, I didn't _completely_ finish the prompt... (I've already apologized to Scripps repeatedly...) I always avoid posting WIPs; however, I believe that what's here can stand on its own. I don't want to say anything definitively one way or the other, but honestly? I haven't written anything else in this radical AU since I first posted this -- not even notes on how Donna, (secret high school tennis player) Jessica, and (open tennis lover) Louis fit into this world.


End file.
